Devotion and Dispassion
by Literary Bitca
Summary: Introspective Reddington fic, set in the final moments of 2x14.


**Devotion and Dispassion  
**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Blacklist or the characters I'm writing about. I make no money off of this. I similarly do not have any connection to Hozier or his song "Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene".

**Author's Note:** This is a weird one. I have lots of confessions to make here. I read roominthecastle's March 12th 2015 tumblr post about episode 2x14 and it resonated so deeply with me that I rushed home after work and turned the beautiful damn thing into a fic. I borrow heavily from Room's phrasing and ideas in some parts, to the point that I'm basically listing Room here as a co-author. (Look up the original post—it's eighteen different kinds of fabulous.) I've gotten permission to post this, because I'm loathe to steal content or ideas: so think of this as fanart based off of roominthecastle's post. Additionally, I'm somewhat obsessed with Hozier's song that played during the end of 2x13 The Deer Hunter, and I weave references to a bunch of the lyrics into this story as well. So I feel kind of like a cover band, taking classics written by other artists and hoping I do this mash-up version justice. :) Last but not least: OH EM GEE this is a one-shot. This has never happened to me before. ;)

…:::…

Even while enduring the indignity of being prepped like a poodle getting ready for a dog show, Reddington could objectively appreciate the work of the Kings. Granted, they had taken the trope of a dysfunctional family to a whole new low, but they managed to run a bold and very successful business for years and survive. He might even use the word "thrive." There was a certain security the Kings bestowed on their offspring, teaching them to run the business and continue the family name. The fact that Earl had taken a dive off the deep end of lunacy and landed in a place somewhere between love and abuse with his sons was irrelevant. He toyed with them, yes, but he also gave them stability, and routine, and all the finer comforts they could wish for, rubbing elbows with the beautifully wretched members of the aristocratic underworld. With a simple, vague invitation, they could call the wicked and influential to any location of their choosing, and they would arrive on black, malignant wings to sip champagne and fill the family's pockets. Now that was power.

Not that they were powerful anymore. Reddington clenched his teeth and told himself to relax. Allowing himself to wallow in the events of the evening and vilify those who had been present was less than unhelpful.

He passed through the ornate building's huge front entryway, and wandered the decorative concrete between the official FBI vehicles, his hat pulled down over his eyes and his winter coat bulky around him. The tux hadn't been as terrible as his final dig had made it seem, but the fact that he'd been dressed in it for the singular purpose of his complete objectification made him hate it. Even as he agreed with Earl's characterization of his value to others as something other than a man—either as an information source, or as a means to achieve revenge or retribution through his suffering and death—Red felt the need to defend his humanity. Like a boy who makes it clear that the only person who gets to insult his obnoxious little brother is _himself_—by beating anyone else who dares to make fun of his sibling to a bloody pulp in the school yard—Reddington was infuriated by the Kings' disrespect.

They'd been dealt with, he reminded himself. It was done.

No matter how many times he repeated the mantra, however, Reddington could not stop turning the events of the night over in his mind, almost obsessively dissecting what he'd witnessed and been a party to.

He'd been close to death many times, but his outlook on his own demise had always been somewhat flippant. The way he'd reacted tonight disturbed him.

Not that his physical actions had been any different than they would have been a year ago. He'd protected Elizabeth Keen, as he'd set out to do from the start, and would continue to.

Reddington's eyes landed on the black sedan he recognized as his, and adjusted his direction of wandering toward it, blue and red lights flashing their irritating staccato across the scene.

She had looked terrifying and glorious, striding into the room behind him, her determined expression and steady weapon quite at odds with her heavy black gown and elegant hair. Reddington knew she'd shot people before—killed people before—but it had always been in the strict line of duty, and always by the book, with self-identification and verbal warnings beforehand. Tonight she hadn't hesitated an instant, and had given Yaabari no chance to step away or put down his weapon. The threat of a gun to his head had apparently been enough to—what? Reddington kept coming up short when his mind wound around to that section of the evening. As if he was singing a song through several verses before stalling on a single forgotten line, he started over, hoping the process would shake an explanation loose.

Reddington had never shied away from the despicable; never protested when his hands had to get dirty. In his life there had been no shortage of the sordid, and he was used to bearing it alone. King had been right when he'd spoken of dispassion being a businessman's best friend. Rather than thinking of his _offspring's_ survival and advancement dispassionately, as Earl did, Reddington had been thinking of _himself_ that way for years. The depths he had had to stoop to in order to survive were not conducive to friendships or loving respect from others, and he had made his peace with the fact that everyone he dealt with—Elizabeth Keen included—valued him as an asset, and not a person; a device useful in obtaining the thing they _really_ wanted. When one calls down to the front desk at a hotel to ask the concierge to secure tickets to a show or suggest a fine restaurant, one does not generally even take note of the concierge's name. That person is only useful as long as they provide the content or object being sought. Being thought of as a glorified search engine, and more disposable than an actual human being was familiar to him, and the fact that he'd presented and used himself as such over the past decade had made the indignities of the last day—being packaged in a box, being displayed for perusal and purchase—somewhat easier to stomach. Reddington liked to insist he didn't have friends, because the statement could be used as humorous self-deprecation, as a statement of assurance that he could not be compromised, or as an insult to dissuade anyone who considered themselves close enough to him to ask for a favor. Repeating it regularly also worked as a decent reminder to himself.

He didn't have any friends.

Reddington opened the back door of the car and slid in, thankful for the way the vehicle dulled the surrounding noise. He found the sounds of human beings outside somehow comforting, but the expensive car gave them a muted quality which served to cocoon him in familiar solitude.

He had said her name. Aloud.

Again back to the moment that he couldn't seem to understand, Reddington's jaw tightened at the memory of the way he'd ceased to care, in that split second, about playing things close to the vest. He had been fond of the woman when he'd turned himself in to the FBI, but working closely with her over the past eighteen months had seen his fondness deepen and change. His initial pragmatism had gradually transformed into a passion. While this was not specifically advantageous in any way for him, he could deal with it. The feelings on his end could be twisted, and tamped down, and only examined briefly after too much alcohol on nights when he had confidence in his current residence's security system, and Dembe had plans to stay awake. Even then he only ever allowed himself to momentarily remember the way her dark hair felt under his fingertips, or to barely consider how sweet her breath might taste if she ever allowed him close enough to discover.

She shot Yaabari without a second thought, moving so purposefully toward him. A small, confident angel of death.

Reddington skipped his mind quickly over the thought of how he would have felt upon waking tomorrow if she had died in the pursuit of his protection. If he had survived, and she had not. His chest tightened, and a terrible feeling somewhere between ice and fire settled behind his ribs for a moment before he banished it.

He tried to start over at the beginning once again, with the Kings, but found he was unable, instead getting stuck on the moment when he had cleared his mind, knowing with unbridled surety that this was going to be the last thought in his wretched head. With an almost painful ache, he had pictured her in front of him, cupping his face with her palms, and leaning her forehead against his, telling him she would be safe, even without him in her life, and that she would go on to be happy. She whispered instructions not to worry about her, and told him she understood why he'd done all that he had.

"_Lizzie_."

He caught sight of her through the car's window, her large skirt making her silhouette unmistakable, even in the darkness of the night. She was layered with a heavy coat, and as she approached the car, anger and panic boiled up in his throat.

"You can never do that again," he said with conviction as she sat across from him, forcing his breathing to be slow and regular.

She misunderstood what he was referring to—Reddington thought wildly that it sometimes seemed like she willfully misunderstood him on purpose, and it infuriated him—and he waited, frozen, unable to decide if he wanted her to understand or not. The point became moot when she got there a second later.

"_You_. You're talking about _you. Wow_. You are _so damaged_."

Reddington felt a lance of pain through his chest but didn't allow any change in his face. People didn't care for damaged objects. They didn't keep them; they had no use for them. People got rid of them. He listened to her, afraid that if he moved an inch his eyes would betray him and she'd discover that despite the fact that his feelings toward her were bloody and raw, he would swear on her soul they were sweet.

When Reddington had first attempted to establish value with her from the confines of a chair, bound and shackled at the black site, he had assumed that the best way to keep her interested and involved in his life was to be of constant use to her, a source of information and solutions (as well as occasional irritation and frustration), and always with the promise of answers to questions about her life that he himself suggested to her on a regular basis. This had worked so well for so long, trading information and services, that Reddington's mind was utterly defeated by the explanation she gave him.

"I risked my life for you because I care about you. _Deal with that_."

His unspoken agreement with her since they began working together was that he provided her with things she wanted, and she, in return, regarded him dispassionately. That's how it had worked, and he could count on that as a constant. Reddington was somewhat surprised to suddenly feel a sense of betrayal. She spoke as if she no longer kept him around simply because he had something to trade. Their 'business arrangement' was no longer just business; she had effectively torn up their contract by admitting she cared, and the only coherent thought he could manage after mechanically thanking her was a desperately repetitive but still vehement, "But never do it again." His instruction sounded childish even to his own ears, now that it only referred to an agreement that had been rendered null and void.

Reddington knew her tears would eventually spill over as she spoke to him, her eyes brimming, but that knowledge didn't help when he finally saw them fall. The vision of her he'd imagined kneeling in front of him earlier had been comforting. This jarring new confirmation of his worth from her was horrifying and daunting, and Reddington turned to stare out his window.

He'd survived. Because of her.

She'd survived. In spite of him.

She was alive.

His knees ached from landing hard on the tile, and kneeling, waiting for death. But he remembered the sweet heat of her name in his mouth in that moment.

He was alive. And she valued that.

…:::…

Thank you again, a million times over, to roominthecastle for writing the original tumblr post that this is based on. You're eloquent, and thoughtful, and so gracious to allow me to borrow so heavily from your phrasing to create this fic. You rock my socks off. Love, love, love.

If any of you readers liked this fic, please, please, PLEASE do yourself a massive favor and find roominthecastle's original post from March 12th 2015 on tumblr, and read it. It's amazing.

Also, find Hozier's song "Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene", and listen to the lyrics, and swim in the feels until your fingers turn all prune-y. It's badass and poignant all at the same time.

Review, please! If you have a moment, it's the easiest way to give a huge smile to a fellow human being. :) And smiles are wonderful.


End file.
